


Search and Rescue

by ThetaSigma



Series: Mad Doc Watson [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Mad Doc Watson, Sex in the woods, Wildnerness training, john is BAMF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 03:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14155488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/ThetaSigma
Summary: As part of their latest case, Sherlock and John end up in woods, completely lost. Sherlock admits he's fairly out of his depth here, but John's got it covered -- he was well-trained in wilderness survival.As they walk, John relates a Mad Doc tale about his training.And no outing in the woods is complete without a quickie, of course.





	Search and Rescue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cemm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cemm/gifts).



> Finally another one! Sorry it's been so long, everyone!
> 
> [cemm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cemm) asked me for one where "Hot Dr John" was shirtless -- so that definitely ended up in this fic!

“John, I may have made a _slight_ miscalculation,” Sherlock admits, looking around.

“The one where you decided to run off the clearly marked trail in the woods because you were convinced your sense of direction would 1 – lead you to the likely location of the hideout and 2 – back out again?” John asks, amused.

Sherlock huffs. “Yes, that one. And, uh, I thought we could use GPS to get us out again, if I _did_ get lost,” he says sheepishly (John enjoys, for a second, a sheepish Sherlock. It’s a fairly rare sight).

John laughs. “God, you are _such_ a city boy, love,” he teases. He looks around. “Nothing but trees for _miles_. Do you have any idea how far we ran?”

“At least two miles, and that’s after a few miles on the trail, although I’m not sure any of that was in a straight line.” He turns in a circle and says, “I _really_ don’t know which way to head.” John knows he’s the only one Sherlock will admit _not knowing_ something to. Sherlocks sucks his teeth for a second in thought. “I suppose we could – _should_ – just pick a direction and walk,” he says doubtfully.

“Oh, love,” John says fondly. “I was in the _army_. Wilderness training was fairly standard, and I _was_ rather good at it. Probably from summer hols hiking with my granddad.”

Sherlock visibly relaxes. “What do you suggest, then?”

“Right. I actually looked at a map of the area before we entered. We came in from the north, and the forest is pretty damn big – back towards the north will be the fastest. I don’t know which way any of the trails are, so we’ll just head north and break out of the forest. If we don’t have a signal there, I have other ideas.”

Sherlock turns in a circle. “That all sounds great, but how the hell do we know which way north is? Did you bring a compass?”

“ _Such_ a city boy,” John laughs, with a playful shove to his husband’s shoulder. He walks to a nearby tree, covered with moss and lichen, and says, “Come here, I’ll show you.”

Sherlock looks at him sceptically. “Are you going to ask a _tree_?”

“Come here and look.” 

Sherlock comes over reluctantly. 

“See how the moss is mainly on one side of the tree?”

“Yesssss,” Sherlock says doubtfully. 

“Moss grows on the north side of trees. Easy to orient ourselves. It’s not like getting lost in a large open area, then you have to get a lot more creative.” He looks up at the sky. “Hard to see the sun through all the leaves, but I figure we’ve got a couple hours of sunlight left. Best get a move on.” He strides off confidently.

Sherlock follows and catches up quickly. “Why do I have the feeling you have a wilderness training story, John?”

John laughs. “Because you’ve spent too much time listening to my army mates. Not _everything_ has a story attached to it.”

“I’ve been married General ‘Mad Doc’ Watson long enough to know _everything_ has a story. So, what did you do?”

“Really it was – ”

Sherlock cuts him off. “Now I _know_ that _something_ happened. You only say ‘Really, it was nothing’ when there’s a Mad Doc story. John. Tell me. Please?”

“Okay, okay.” John wipes his forehead. “God, you had to pick the hottest day of the year to get lost in the woods, didn’t you? I’m sweaty as hell.” With an annoyed grunt, he tugs his shirt off. He’d foregone his vest today, and he carelessly tucks his shirt into a pocket. Sherlock stares in appreciation. God, John is _stunning_. Compact, obvious but not grotesquely bulging muscles, skin a light gold…

In Sherlock’s opinion, the scar – not objectively beautiful – just _adds_ to John’s appeal. Makes him look _dangerous_ , a side John so carefully hides with shapeless jumpers and a cultivated unassuming air. This, though, John like this – sweaty, glistening, muscles and scar on display, in dappled sunlight – it’s amazing, glorious, _potent_.

“How long did you say we have until it’s dark?” Sherlock asks gruffly, the promised story all but forgotten for the moment.

John looks up at the sky. “Couple hours until the sun sets, another hour for true darkness.”

“ _Excellent_ ,” Sherlock growls, and tugs John against him. “I want you to fuck me in the woods.”

John’s pupils dilate rapidly, and Sherlock can feel the beginnings of an erection against his thigh.

“Much as I love that idea, did you stick lube in one of those pockets?”

Sherlocks grins impishly. “I may have been utterly unprepared for the woods, but I am _always_ prepared to be absolutely _ravished_ by you.” He takes a couple of single serve sachets of lube and a condom out of his trouser pockets. They only use condoms when fucking in public or semi-public spaces, to cut down on the mess. As much as Sherlock _loves_ the feeling of John coming in him, and even the feel after, he really hates having to get back home with come and lube leaking out of him (discovering _that_ had not been particularly fun).

Sherlock kisses John forcefully, trying to communicate to him how very, very much he needs John to _fuck him._

John grins against his mouth and effortlessly takes control of the kiss. “My beautiful man,” he murmurs against Sherlock’s neck before sucking hard, leaving a mark. Sherlock rumbles wordlessly in delight. Before John, he’d _hated_ being marked by lovers, but with John, he _revels_ in it, in John’s marks of love and ownership.

“Wish I could take my time with you, gorgeous. Spread you out under the trees and worship you like you’re meant to be, but we don’t have time.” He nudges Sherlock gently, encouraging him to lie on the ground, and Sherlock does. John follows, yanking Sherlock’s t-shirt off (his concession to the heat and their plans for the day. Sherlock’s also wearing actual _trainers_ and jeans – will wonders never cease). 

John sucks on a nipple briefly, enjoying the way Sherlock arches up into him. “You’re so, so beautiful like this,” John says quietly into the soft skin of Sherlock’s stomach. “God, you’re _glowing_.” He was, too, the sunlight highlighting his pale, pale skin, glinting off his curls and his wet lips. “We have to come back to camp one night,” John adds. “I want to be able to make love to you for _hours_ in a forest someday, and I _need_ to see you in moon- and starlight. God, I bet you’d look _stunning_.”

“John, _please_ ,” Sherlock whimpers. “I need you, and we don’t have much time.” He pauses in thought. “But, uh, that camping idea. That sounds surprisingly good.” He doesn’t add he wants to see John again in all his glory in this kind of setting. He doesn’t need to: John knows, if the quirk of his lips is any indication.

To hurry things up – partly impatience, partly the time constraint – Sherlock toes off his trainers, unbuttons his jeans and shoves them and his pants down his legs, kicking them off to the side.

John unlaces his boots and kicks them off, then shoves his jeans and pants off, too, and leaves them in a heap next to Sherlock’s scattered clothes. 

Sherlock stares eagerly at John’s hard dick. It’s been what, a year? two? since he first saw it, and the bolt of _lustwantneednow_ at the sight hasn’t abated in the slightest since then. How can it, when he knows _exactly_ how good that cock feels in _every_ way – in his hands, his mouth, his arse.

Speaking of, he spreads his legs wide and wriggles eagerly, presenting himself.

“Impatient sod,” John says fondly, settling in between Sherlock’s legs. He tears open one of the sachets and empties it onto his fingers, prepping Sherlock quickly and efficiently. Sherlocks fucks himself on John’s fingers, rocking down, stroking his cock slowly. 

“John, I’m ready, I’m so ready,” he pants, arching as John presses against his prostate. 

John slips his fingers out and Sherlock whines at the loss – contradictory of him, of course, since he’d just begged for _more_. John chuckles and rolls the condom on, lubes himself up, and presses in in one long thrust. 

“Oh _God_ ,” Sherlock wails, wrapping his legs around John’s waist. “C’mon, _fuck me_.”

John complies eagerly, pulls out and pushes back in hard, tries to angle to hit Sherlock’s prostate. He knows he’s found it when Sherlock gives a wordless, hoarse shout of pleasure and tightens his legs around John’s waist. Jon sets a fast, hard pace, slamming into Sherlock. Sherlock in turn claws at John’s back, probably leaving red lines or even welts in his nails’ wake, but neither of them can be bothered to care about that.

“Touch yourself,” John pants. “Get yourself off. Want you to come, God, Sherlock, _please_.”

Sherlock tugs at his prick, stroking in time with John’s thrusts. He feels his orgasm approaching, hovering _just_ out of reach, so close. John gives a particularly enthusiastic thrust and Sherlock’s _there_ , arching up off the hard ground as his orgasm slams through him.

“God, _Sherlock_ ,” John groans, hips kicking erratically as he comes. He wants to slump down against Sherlock but doesn’t want to spread the mess any further. He settles for bending down and tenderly kissing his beloved husband. “I love you,” John says quietly.

“The feeling is most definitely mutual,” Sherlock answers, nuzzling John’s cheek.

John grins down at him and nudges Sherlock’s cheek with his nose. “Prat,” he says fondly. “Can’t you just say the words?”

“Tedious.” Sherlock looks serious suddenly, and puts his hands on John’s braced arms, preventing him from pulling out just yet. “John. I do love you. So much I… it _overwhelms_ me sometimes.”

John shifts so that his weight is balanced on one arm. With his free hand, he cups Sherlock’s cheek. “I know, love, I know. I was just teasing you. I _know_ how much you love me – and Sherlock, my love, I love you just as much.”

*** 

They’ve sorted themselves out again, dressed (at least in their pants and trousers, both have decided to remain shirtless for the time being) and are walking again, John making sure they’re heading in the right direction.

Sherlock says suddenly, “I haven’t forgotten you still haven’t told me your wilderness training story. Even if you tried to distract me completely unfairly but partially disrobing.”

“I was _sweaty_ because an idiot I know led me on a run through woods with no exit strategy,” John protests.

“Story,” Sherlock insists. “Or I can entertain us by telling you everything I hate about the woods.”

“God no. Fine. I was a major at the time, and we were dropped randomly throughout various forests and empty spaces. Up in Scotland, I think – lot of nothing for miles up there. Our goal was to make it to a phone and call base for a pick-up. We had practically nothing with us – some of us with whatever we’d grabbed when called in for a meeting, some not even that. Definitely no food or water. Either you found some or you went without.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, I had been dropped in some woods somewhere. Started finding my way out. Easiest was just to head north, hope I got out of the forest sooner rather than later. Of course, I knew what was safe to eat and what wasn’t, and I was lucky enough to still have my combat knife.

“After several hours, I heard crying. Soft, muffled, not someone crying for attention but because they needed to. I followed the sound and found a young boy curled up against a tree, crying. He couldn’t have been more than four or five. I thought seeing him meant I was rather close to civilization after all – he had to come from _somewhere_. I approached him and told him I was a doctor, that my name was John, then asked what was wrong.

“He told me a big fire had eaten his house, and his mummy had thrown him out a window and told him to run as fast as he could away. But he hadn’t known what to do when he got away from the fire, so he just kept running and running and was now totally lost. I asked him when that had been, but he wasn’t good with time yet – or he’d had a rather nasty shock. So I asked how many times it had been dark, and he told me two.

“So either he was really lost and rescue teams were looking in the wrong area, or no one knew he survived – which I figured would mean his mother hadn’t. The boy told me he stopped running because he was very tired, and hungry, and thirsty, and why hadn’t his mummy or daddy found him yet?

“I told him that we’d find our way out together, and I’d get him at least to a town where someone could help him get back home. I found some berries for him, and he calmed a bit. I asked if he knew his name – ”

“And let me guess, he looked at you like you were an idiot?”

“He told me he was Silas, but actually, he didn’t remember his last name, or his address or town. He knew his mother’s name was Celeste and his father’s was Hamish. I told him my name had Hamish in it, too, and he at least smiled at that. I asked him if he could walk with me and he got up and we headed off. He didn’t remember which way he’d been running, so we kept going north. Silas was a sweetheart, very serious, fairly intelligent – ”

Sherlock scoffs. “He didn’t know his address or family name.”

John says mildly, “He also had had a rather large shock, followed by two days of running without food or water.”

Sherlock makes a noise that John knows means John’s right but Sherlock won’t actually admit it out loud. John is very good at deciphering Sherlockian by now. Sherlock frowns and thinks back on what he knows of his husband’s military career. “Silas would be, what, ten? twelve? now, wouldn’t he?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“That’s the kid that you see once in a while, who calls you Uncle John, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“What happened next?” Sherlock asks.

“We kept walking, what else? Silas had run for _two days_ at this point, so I figured we were a good ways away from civilization. Perhaps I’d been closer than that when I was first dropped in, but had picked a bad direction to go. Although, clearly not, since I found Silas – I don’t think anyone else would have. For the most part, we walked together, but when Silas tired, I carried him for a while. He hardly weighed more than a full kit. And he was good – he never complained once about the journey. He’d tell me when he was really very tired or hungry, and I did the best I could, but my focus was getting the hell out of there.

“We finally reached the end of the forest after nearly four days of walking – Silas slowed us down quite a bit, I think alone I’d have gotten there in two days. There, we ran into a whole group of people. I thought that they were coming to find Silas, so I waved them over. Turns out, they weren’t there for him – someone else had gone missing in the woods and they were all there to find him. I asked how long their target had been missing, and they said several days at this point, that he was supposed to have been out days before. I was torn – I wanted to stay with Silas, see this through, but if the man had been missing for days now, then likely he was injured. At the least, he was probably dehydrated. They’d need a doctor.

“None of them were, so I asked two of the search-and-rescue party if they’d take the lost little boy to town and find out where he belonged. I promised Silas once we found the missing man, I’d come and find him again, to see how he was doing.

“And then I headed off back into the woods. We searched for _hours_ , looking into every dark spot, up every tree, everywhere. By stroke of luck, ten or so hours later, we found a man wandering around, and the group – at least the ones near – clustered around him. He didn’t look like he’d been missing for days, but the team got very excited, so I figured this must be the man we’re looking for.

“The leader of the team said, ‘Major Watson, sir! We’re here to lead you out.’ The man looked befuddled, and I coughed and said, ‘Actually, _I’m_ Major Watson.’ So they asked me why I hadn’t told them that before, and I told them they hadn’t exactly told me who they were looking for – not even a description! How come _they_ didn’t recognize me off the description?”

“You _joined the search and rescue team sent to find you_?” Sherlock asks disbelievingly.

“Yes.”

Sherlock laughs. He can’t help it – it’s so _utterly_ absurd. “What happened with Silas?”

“His parents had died in the fire. His mother had tossed him out a window but couldn’t get out after him, and his father had been trapped too. His gran was still alive, so he went to live with her. Silas is doing pretty well, considering. He sent me letters while I was still in the army, and when I had leave, I’d go up to Scotland for a few days and visit him. He’s not quite like a son to me, but fairly close.”

“Why haven’t I met him?” Sherlock asks quietly. 

“I haven’t seen him in a couple years. We still Skype and send emails, but he’s gotten pretty busy, and I’ve been running around after you. I don’t know when I’d make it up to Scotland.”

“Call him up and set up a time. I’ll come, too. I’d like to meet him.”

“As soon as we find our way out of _these_ woods, sure.”

*** 

They finally emerge from the forest about an hour later. The sun hasn’t set yet, and Sherlock looks around disgustedly. “Nothing,” he says.

“Check your phone,” John advises. They both do; there’s still no signal.

“Now what?” Sherlock asks. “We don’t have any more trees to monitor for moss growth.”

John points off in the distance where they can see power lines. “Power lines mean they’re leading to somewhere that needs power. We go to the lines, then follow them – we’ll end up in a town of some kind eventually.”

A very disgruntled half-hour later, they’ve found a road and gotten signals on their phones. 

As soon as they are back in their hotel, Sherlock blocks out two separate occasions in his calendar: one is to meet this kid (John’s on the phone with him now) and one is to go camping.

Sherlock looks out at the wide expanse beyond the window. He bets that if they go far enough out – not _very_ far, of course – they’d be reasonably private.

It’s a full moon tonight, and John _had_ wanted to see Sherlock bathed in moonlight.

**Author's Note:**

> Anything you particularly want to see John tackle? Let me know and I'll see if I can work it in.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, a more serious programming note -- I have _zero_ intention of abandoning this series, and it's definitely not complete, but unfortunately a bunch of health issues came up, limiting my time for writing. Additionally, one of those health issues is a hand surgery on my dominant hand, so after April 20th, I'll be unable to type up a story for a good 4-6 weeks (I suppose I _could_ type one-handed, but I go barmy after several minutes of that!) Hopefully I'll be able to post and save up some fics to post during my convalescence. Anyway, yeah, Mad Doc may be going on a bit of a hiatus for a while, but he'll come back! I have far too many ideas to stop writing him just yet!


End file.
